


She Talks With Angels

by AmazingGraceless



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A lot of her portrayals make me uncomfortable, Gen, I will make you sob for Myrtle, and was bullied mercilessly, she’s a kid who died guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28070034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmazingGraceless/pseuds/AmazingGraceless
Summary: No one ever did ask Moaning Myrtle what she'd been before her untimely death. She has plenty of reasons to cry.
Kudos: 2





	She Talks With Angels

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Moaning Myrtle. Named after the Counting Crows song.

I wasn't always like this, you know. Dead, ugly, crying. I wasn't always Moaning Myrtle- but wouldn't you moan and cry too if you realized that you were dead and you'll never get to see your parents again because of some stupid decision you made when you were fourteen?

I was once Myrtle Warren, the light of my parents' life. Mummy and Daddy loved me very much because you see, they weren't sure Mummy would ever be able to have children. I was a surprise, but a pleasant one- well, sort of.

I was an odd child- God, I don't think of myself as a child anymore- and it wasn't just because of the magic. You see, there seemed to be rules that everyone followed. How to talk to each other, how to act, the script you said. It was like everyone was born like that- not me, it seemed.

I scared Mummy and Daddy when I was a baby, too. You see, I didn't talk for the longest time, and I didn't look at them. I wonder if then it hurt for me to make eye contact like it does now. Looking someone in the eyes- it hurts, it hurts so much. How does anyone else do it?

I guess I've never understood and never will.

I cry because I feel everything so strongly- I read in one of the new books that people cry because they feel one emotion too much. That explains a lot. I feel, I feel, and I feel, but everyone hides it and lies. They pretend they feel nothing at all, and I can't do it.

I hate that. Hated it when I was alive, hate it now that I'm dead.

Excuse me. I'm sorry that I cry so much, but you would too when you can feel it in the air, every emotion and it sinks into your own body until it's- what do those computer wizards call it?- until it's overloaded.

When I did play the game and pretended, they called me cold, unsympathetic, told me I couldn't feel for anyone. I cried then because I was so mad- why was it alright when everyone else hid what they felt, but it was a bad thing when I hid? I never did understand how everyone else did it.

I'm sure you hate me, like everyone else, but do you want to hear what I was like, alive? No one's asked me anything about me in a long time. Hobbes was right, as much as I hate to admit it. Add it as another reason why I cry. I weep for humanity- how little everyone cares about anyone beside themselves.

Oh, good, you do want to hear more. I hope it wasn't a lie. People lied to me when I was alive, and they lie even more now that I'm- that I'm dead.

Mummy and Daddy were proud of me, you know. I was a fast reader, a quick learner, had a memory better than most people. I drank in information and was a good study. I liked bubble baths a lot, enjoyed the idea of being a mermaid like in those stories.

I collected things too. Pretty little things- like the bottles those bubbles came in, ribbons I'd find on the street, nice-looking books. There wasn't much like that I could find during wartime, but it was enough, I suppose. Mummy and Daddy indulged me, even when what I collected was strange.

Maybe that's why I was sorted into Ravenclaw. Yes, I was part of the house for supposedly being open-minded and creative. Glad to see that hasn't changed in fifty years. If you don't believe me, look at the Lovegood girl. I laugh and cry when I heard the Sorting Hat boast of that- it's wrong.

I enjoyed making things, crafting theories- had a penchant for history. Now I'm walking- or floating, I suppose- history. I've lived through World War II, the Cold War, all of it. And I always will.

I suppose I should get back on track about my life, shouldn't I? I was bullied because I acted strange. Olive Hornby was the worst about it. Girls would pretend to be my friends, and then they'd shun me, make me do cruel things to prove my 'loyalty' but that was never enough for them.

That was alright for the first two years. I had books for friends. Besides, Tom Riddle seemed nice enough, with his charming smiles. I admit, I had a crush on him. Stupid, right? I'm still stupid boy-crazy Myrtle. . . Hm. . .

Here's the thing that people have finally caught onto, thank God- girls can be so cruel. Yes, boys are pretty mean too- but girls will stab you in the back with a pair of scissors and give you a pretty and innocent smile.

I hated everything about me when I was fourteen. My pimples, my fat figure, my ugly glasses- Mummy assured me my swan years were to come. Now they never will.

You know what? Everyone thinks I cry because I'm sad. There's some truth to that. But the real reason I cry? I'm angry. I'm so angry I can barely breathe. I don't get some happily ever after. I will never get to see my parents again, or maybe go somewhere where I could be happy. All because of a split-second decision I made when I was fourteen!

Some say Olive Hornby didn't deserve me stalking her, making her miserable. You know what? Boo-hoo. She can go to the Ministry to get rid of me, but I didn't get that luxury when I was alive.

I will never understand why everyone sides with her when I've got tragedy in my bones.


End file.
